Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Some of his rage throttled back and he nodded.

  Mazael and Romaria spun through the press of monstrosities side-by-side. Romaria’s bastard sword crashed against black shields and Lion clanged against flashing scimitars. Romaria’s attack played out, and she stepped back. One of the creatures lunged for her and met Lion's point instead. Blue flame blasted through the creature, flinging it to the ground.

  Mazael parried the attacks of another creature. He realized the creatures were skillful, but could not handle more than one opponent at once. Mazael retreated, drawing the creature after him. It came at him, scimitar twirling, and never saw Romaria step up and plunge in her sword into its back.

  Mazael risked a glance around. Only three dead things still stood. Sir Nathan and Silar each fought one, while Timothy's face contorted as he fought to work another spell. Mazael ran towards them.

  He hacked at the creature Silar faced and took its hand off at the wrist. The creature twitched, and Silar’s hands lanced forward and tore the dead thing’s head from its crumbling shoulders.

  Sir Nathan pivoted, his heavy greatsword coming up over his head. His sword sheared through a dead thing’s chest, flames sputtering and dancing on the steel. The creature thrashed as its rotted form burned away. Silar’s hands darted out, clamping about the wrist of the sole surviving creature, and tore its arm away. The creature flailed, and Mazael and Romaria hacked it to pieces.

  Silence fell over the corridor.

  “Well fought,” said Sir Nathan.

  Silar grinned. “Simonian’s magic might have power, but the magic of old Tristafel is stronger still.”

  “Care to test that?”

  Mazael turned, Lion's power burning up his arm.

  Simonian stood before the twisting stairs to Mitor's rooms. His black robes cloaked him like wings of darkness, and his murky eyes danced with glee as they swept over the fallen creatures. “Impressive. Impressive indeed! I did not think even you would have the power to overthrow the warriors of the dead, Sir Mazael.”

  Mazael lifted Lion, the sword's glow bathing the corridor in blue-white light. “I mean to leave this pit. Stand aside, necromancer, or you’re next.”

  Simonian laughed. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, not after what your half-breed friend did to poor Mitor.”

  Mazael stepped forward. “Why do you care? You asked me to kill Mitor. Get out of my way.”

  “Just why would you want to leave?” said Simonian. “If the most lovely Lady Romaria has slain Mitor, then you are Lord of Castle Cravenlock. You could overthrow the Mandragons. You could make yourself king. King of the world, perhaps. What’s to stop you?”

  “I don’t want to become Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Mazael.

  “Then why not turn around and make them pay for what they have done?” said Simonian. “Make Skhath pay. And Rachel, dear, sweet Lady Rachel, so innocent and kind, who would never betray you...”

  “Shut up,” said Mazael.

  “They are in disarray,” said Simonian. “The snake-kissing rabble wail to their slithering god for aid. Why not go back and finish it? I will help you, I will lend my arts to your cause. Together we will make Skhath pay for his sins. And together, we shall make Rachel pay for her treachery!”

  “I...” said Mazael. He wanted to make that wretched serpent Skhath pay. “I...can’t...I want...” He wanted to make Rachel pay.

  The rage burned through him in a black storm.

  “You raised the zuvembies,” said Romaria. She pointed her burning sword at Simonian. “Your necromancy killed Master Othar. Why should he listen to you?”

  “You are a liar and a deceiver,” said Sir Nathan.

  Mazael's mind cleared. “They’re right. You’re in my way. Last warning. Move.”

  Simonian sighed. “If it must come to this...” His hands snapped up and began moving in a spell.

  Mazael sprinted for the necromancer, Romaria and Sir Nathan a half-step behind. Simonian thrust his hand forward, green light glimmering at his fingertips, and Mazael lunged. Lion’s blazing point slid past the wizard’s hand and plunged into his chest, meeting no resistance at all. Mazael staggered, recovering his balance, while Simonian vanished in a scattering of smoke.

  “He’s gone,” said Nathan.

  “An illusion!” said Romaria. “He was never there at all.”

  Mazael heard Simonian’s voice. The necromancer stood by the temple doors, and Mazael raced for him.

  But it was too late. Simonian spread his arms wide. Green light exploded from his fingertips, stabbing into Mazael's eyes and sending lines of pain into his head. He heard Romaria scream, heard Sir Nathan shout a challenge.

  Mazael roared and managed to take another staggering step before everything fell into darkness.

  3

  Rachel’s True Love

  The air smelled of blood and rot.

  Mazael flickered in and out of consciousness. He realized that he sat on a cold stone floor, his back pressed against a rough wall. Steel cuffs pinned his arms to the wall, and a heavy chain bound his ankles. Incoherent images flickered across his thoughts. He saw Romaria, her eyes clear and her face smiling. He saw Sir Nathan and Master Othar. He saw his father. He saw Simonian. He saw Rachel with golden serpents wrapped around her wrists, crimson sigils scribed on her arms...

  The rage made his mind swim back into focus.

  Thin streams of torchlight leaked through in the narrow window, illuminating the straw-packed floor and the rusted chains. He groaned and leaned his head against the cold stone of the wall.

  His weapons and armor were gone, of course.

  Mazael jerked against the chains. What had happened to Romaria and the others? Were they locked away in other cells? Or had they been killed?

  A wave of guilt surged through him. How could he have been so stupid? The evidence had been right before his eyes. Yet he had insisted Rachel would never do such a thing. He had said and thought that over and over again. And now he would pay the price for it. At least he had sent Gerald and the squires away.

  “Out there!” yelled Mazael. “Can anyone hear me?”

  A shadow appeared in the small windows. “Keep quiet!”

  “Where are the others who were with me?” said Mazael. “What happened to them? Answer...”

  The door banged open. A pair of Cravenlock armsmen stormed inside. Both had the sigil of a twisting serpent tattooed upon their foreheads.

  “I said keep quiet,” said one guard.

  “Where are they?” said Mazael. “Tell...”

  The guard’s cudgel crashed into Mazael’s chin, smashing his head against the wall.

  “Keep your mouth shut, else I’ll shut it for you,” said the guard.

  “I’ll take that stick and shove it up...” said Mazael.

  They rained blows upon his head and torso. Mazael fought to keep his eyes open, fury howling through him. For a moment he thought he could tear the chains from the wall. Then a cudgel impacted his head with a loud crack, and everything went dark.

  Mazael awoke some time later. His head felt as if it had swollen to twice its normal size, and his breath whistled through new gaps in his teeth. His left eye would not open, and a stabbing pain filled his chest. Broken ribs, no doubt.

  “I’ll kill them,” he rasped. “By all the gods, I’ll kill them all, Rachel and Skhath and Simonian...”

  But he couldn’t. Skhath would kill him as soon as possible.

  How could he have been so foolish? He had trusted Rachel. And now he would die for it.

  “Rachel". Blood fell from his smashed lips. “I’ll kill her, at least.”

  “Why do you suffer this to continue?”

  Mazael’s head jerked up. Red eyes stared at him from the darkness of his cell.

  “Who?” he said.

  A shape took form in the darkness, and Simonian of Briault stepped out of the shadows and into the feeble light.

  “You,” said Mazael.

  “Indeed
,” said Simonian. “I see your perceptions haven’t suffered.”

  “How did you get in here?” said Mazael.

  “Through the shadows,” said Simonian.

  “Magic?” said Mazael.

  “Of course,” said Simonian. “My arts give me mastery over many things.” He lifted one hand, sparks of green light dancing around his fingertips. “Shadows are the least of what I command. Illusions and the powers of the mind are mine. Even the dead respond to my call, as you have seen. But compared to power over men, these things are little more than the deceptions of a street magician.” He closed his fist, the lights vanishing. “I can bend nations to my will and make them dance to my song. What is that, I ask you, if not true power?”

  Mazael lifted his head to meet the wizard’s gaze. “Monstrous. As are you.”

  “Monstrous?” said Simonian. “There’s a fine word. Who calls me monstrous? Sir Nathan? That dried old stick? He lived in the castle for years and never knew of the San-keth. Blind, that’s what I’d call him, or monstrously stupid. Does young Timothy deBlanc call me monstrous? That stripling wields the simplest of simple magic. He can neither attain nor understand the powers I wield. And Romaria Greenshield calls me a monster?” He laughed. “Has she even told you what will happen to her?”

  “She told me that she only has half a human soul,” said Mazael. His head did not hurt so much. “She told me of the disease.”

  “Disease?” Simonian laughed. “She doesn’t even know the entire truth, does she? Oh, our fair Lady Romaria possess two halves of a soul. One half Elderborn and one half human. One half is infused with the magic of the earth and the other is the mundane piddling soul of a human. That's why her touch shields your dreams, incidentally - together you have one complete human soul. But that will do her no good, in the end.” He rocked his hand back and forth like a scale. “The conflict between the two halves of her soul shall destroy her. Either her human half shall win and she’ll waste away, or the magic in her Elderborn half will conquer, transforming her into a mindless, bloodthirsty beast. I rather imagine she’ll be less attractive to you then. If you wish to bed her, do it soon.”

  “Either kill me or leave me in peace,” Mazael spat. “Don’t waste my time with this nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?” said Simonian. “How little you know.” He traced a finger through the blood drying on Mazael’s chest. “Those guards came close to killing you. Yet you seem rather well for a man who was on death’s door just a moment ago. Why, it’s as if your wounds are stitching themselves together before my very eyes.” His murky eyes filled with amusement. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Leave me in peace,” said Mazael.

  “And I saw the way you controlled the magic in that wretched Tristafellin blade,” said Simonian. “The last men who had the power to control such magic lived millennia ago. Yet here you are, a simple knight-errant with no training in the magical arts. Stronger and faster than any other man. Tell me, why do you suppose that is?”

  “Leave!” said Mazael, his voice stronger.

  “I’ll tell you,” said Simonian. “You’re Demonsouled, Mazael.” He smiled. “Like me.”

  It was a moment before Mazael could speak. “What?”

  “We are both Demonsouled, you and I. We share the same heritage,” said Simonian. “We are descendants of a long-dead god. The demon magic resides in our souls. I have embraced it and mastered it. With it I can wield magic far beyond the skill of any mortal. I did so long before you were born. And look at you, my kinsman. Your wounds heal as I speak. You can control other magic with your will. You can move faster and are stronger than any lesser man. All this, and you have barely tapped the tiniest part of what is possible! You have the potential to become one of the greatest Demonsouled who have ever existed.” He laughed. “If I am monstrous, as you claim, what does that make you? A saint?”

  “No,” said Mazael. The pain in his chest had lessened. “No. No! It is madness and insanity. I will not give in to it!”

  “Madness?” said Simonian. “It is power. Power to make yourself over as you will, to do as you wish, to make others do as you command. Why would you refuse such a thing? Because that fool Othar and that wretch Nathan told you? What do they know?”

  “They were better men than you,” said Mazael.

  “Is that so?” said Simonian. “Tell me, do they know of your true nature? I thought not. What would they say if they found out the truth? Master Othar was such a vigilant defender of this castle. So vigilant he walked into the protective spells warding this place, and didn’t notice as the magical fingers wrapped about his heart and squeezed. How would he have reacted if he had known his fine young student had a demon’s soul? And old Sir Nathan, that paragon of honor and loyalty. Do you think Sir Nathan would smile and pat you on the shoulder? Or would he take his greatsword and plunge through your gut?”

  “I don’t want to hear this," said Mazael. "Sir Nathan was right. You are a liar. I won’t listen to you.”

  “Liar?” said Simonian. “You wound me. I don’t want to lie to you. I want to save you.”

  Mazael laughed. “Save me? You knock me out, leave me hanging in these chains, and you want to save me? You are a liar.”

  Simonian sneered. “And you deny the truth! I want to teach you to save yourself. Who knows of your true self? The half-breed Romaria? The monk Silar? Is that all? Romaria keeps your secret because of her own dichotomy, and Silar’s vision is darkened by the memory of his brother. But what of the others? What of Sir Nathan and Sir Gerald? Knights are sworn to slay demons and protect the innocent.” His mouth twisted in a mirthful grin. “What of the Cirstarcian monks? They kill Demonsouled and San-keth without mercy. Their full wrath would fall on this place, if they knew all its secrets. What of young Timothy deBlanc’s masters, the bloated magisters of Alborg? They ban all dark magic, save those practiced by themselves. What do you think they will do to you, if given the chance? And the great and noble Lord Richard Mandragon, slayer of dragons. Will he allow a Demonsouled in his realm? All the powers of this world are arrayed against you. How do you think you can survive?”

  “Shut up!” said Mazael.

  “And Most High Priest Skhath and his betrothed Lady Rachel Cravenlock,” said Simonian. “How Skhath would love to kill you! He thinks to transform the Grim Marches into a San-keth theocracy with himself as High Priest and Mitor as King.” Simonian laughed. “King! Mitor? Bah! He couldn’t rule a latrine. But you could rule so much more than the Grim Marches.”

  “What do you mean?” said Mazael.

  “Let me teach you,” said Simonian. “I can show you. I can tell you how to unlock the powers within you.” He made a fist. “The healing, the speed, the battle instincts, they are nothing before what you could do, what you could become.” He shook the chains binding Mazael’s wrists. “You could tear those chains like paper. You could shatter that door as if it were made of glass. And then you could kill them all. Mitor and his cronies, Skhath and his whore Rachel, all of them. What could stop you?”

  Mazael could not speak, remembering Silar's warnings.

  “And I would help you,” said Simonian. “Who could stand against us? There is nothing we cannot do. We could tear down this castle, if we chose. We could kill Lord Richard and reign over the Grim Marches. And then what? The impotent old king and the magisters? Mastaria and the Knights Dominiar? The world? What is to stop us?”

  “The gods,” said Mazael, thinking of Romaria. “Fate.”

  “The gods?” said Simonian. He snarled. “The gods care nothing for anything but themselves. Fate? I make my own fate. I can teach you to do the same.”

  “I don’t want anything from you,” said Mazael.

  “You would come to regret those words,” said Simonian. “Fortunately, I will not give you the chance.”

  “You can’t force me to do anything,” said Mazael.

  “Quite true,” said Simonian. “But I can help you to make the right choice.” He gr
inned. “Your friends are alive, you know.”

  “What?” said Mazael.

  “My spell was fashioned to stun,” said Simonian. “They’re all well and safe, sharing cells near yours. They’re alive. For now.”

  “You bastard!” said Mazael. “If...”

  Simonian continued. “I would strongly advise you to accept my offer. If you don’t, why, I fear one of your friends will have a fatal encounter with my spells. Romaria, I think. And another one, and another, and another, until they’re all dead, unless you embrace the demon magic in your soul.” He smiled widened. “And after they’re dead, I’ll find Sir Gerald Roland and those squires. Such fine young men. I think I’ll let you watch as I kill Adalar. Or perhaps I’ll keep Sir Nathan alive to the last, and have you both watch as the boy chokes out his last. Wouldn’t that be thrilling? You already have the blood of so many enemies on that Tristafellin sword of yours. Why not add the blood of a few friends?”

  “You bastard,” said Mazael. “You murdering bastard!”

  Simonian titled his head to the side. “Ah. You have some visitors coming. I’ll let you speak with them in privacy. Think over what I have said once they are done. You’ll soon learn the wisdom of what I have to offer.” Simonian gave a small bow and stepped back into the shadows. His robes blurred with the darkness, and then the wizard was gone.

  Mazael's teeth ground as he fought to suppress his fury. A part of him wanted burst free from the chains and kill them all. The thought sickened him. Yet what choice did he have? Simonian was going to kill them. He was going to kill Romaria.

  “Gods,” whispered Mazael. “Amatheon and Amater and Joraviar. Help me, if you care. Don’t let me become like him. And save them from him. Please.” He hung his head. “Please.”

  Mazael sat in the darkness for a long time, his body tingling and shuddering as his Demonsouled nature did its healing work. His chest and face itched as the cuts and bruises faded. He felt a deep crawling as his cracked rib pulled itself together. His swollen eye leaked blood, and then he could see through it once more. Stabs of agony in his jaw as new teeth rose from his gums. He wondered what the armsmen would say when they saw him recovered from the beating. He could not help but laugh at the thought. It kept him from crying.